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By  the  same  Author 



In  Preparation 

Translated  into  English  verse 













^  PAGE 

.r   Benediction           ...         ...         ...         ...  7 

Echoes       ...         ...         ...         ...         ...         ...         ...  10 

The  Sick  Muse u 

The  Venal  Muse 12 

The  Evil  Monk 13 

The  Enemy    ^» ...         ...         ...          ...  14 

Ill-Luck 15 

Interior  Life         ...         ...         ...         ...         ...         ...  16 

Man  and  the  Sea...         ...         ...         ...         ...         ...  17 

Beauty       ...  18 

The  Ideal 19 

The  Giantess        ...         ...         ...         ...                    ...  20 

Hymnto  Beauty  ...         ...         ...         ...         ...         ...  21 

Exotic  Perfume    ...         ...         ...         ...         ...         ...  22 

La  Chevelure        ...         ...  23 

Sonnet  XXVIII 24 

Posthumous  Remorse      ...         25 

The  Balcony         26 

The  Possessed  One         27 

Semper  Eadem     ...         ...         ...         ...  28 

All  Entire 29 

Sonnet  XLIII      30 

The  Living  Torch            ...         ...         ...         ...         ...  31 

The  Spiritual  Dawn         ...         ...         ...  32 

Evening  Harmony          ...  33 

Overcast  Sky        34 

Invitation  to  a  Journey  ^.         35 

"Causerie"          37 

Autumn  Song       ...         ...         ...         ...  38 

Sisina         ...         ...  39 

To  a  Creolean  Lady       ...         ...         ...         ...         ...  40 

Moesta  et  Errabunda       ...          ...         ...  41 

The  Ghost ...         ...         ...         ...         .  .  43 

Autumn  Song        ...         ...         ...         ...  44 

Sadness  of  the  Moon-Goddess  ...         ...         45 

Cats            46 

Owls           47 

Music         ...         ...         ...         ...          ...         48 

The  Joyous  Defunct        ...         ...  49 

The  Broken  Bell  .f.         50 

Spleen        51 

Obsession  ...         ...         ...         ...         ...  52 

Magnetic  Horror ...         ...         ...         ...         ...         ...  53 

The  Lid 54 

Bertha's  Eyes       ...         ...         ...  55 

The  Set  of  the  Romantic  Sun    ...         ...         ...         ...  56 

Meditation ...         ...         ...  57 

To  a  Passer-by 58 

Illusionary  Love  ...         ...         ...  59 

Mists  and  Rains ...         ...         ...         ...  60 

The  Wine  of  Lovers       61 

Condemned  Women        ...         ...         ...  62 

The  Death  of  the  Lovers           63 

The  Death  of  the  Poor 64 


When  by  the  changeless  Power  of  a  Supreme  Decree 
The  poet  issues  forth  upon  this  sorry  sphere, 
His  mother,  horrified,  and  full  of  blasphemy, 
Uplifts  her  voice  to  God,  who  takes  compassion  on  her. 

"  Ah,  why  did  I  not  bear  a  serpent's  nest  entire, 
Instead  of  bringing  forth  this  hideous  Child  of  Doom ! 
Oh  cursed  be  that  transient  night  of  vain  desire 
When  I  conceived  my  expiation  in  my  womb  !  " 

"  Yet  since  among  all  women  thou  hast  chosen  me 
To  be  the  degradation  of  my  jaded  mate, 
And  since  I  cannot  like  a  love-leaf  wantonly 
Consign  this  stunted  monster  to  the  glowing  grate," 

"  I'll  cause  thine  overwhelming  hatred  to  rebound 
Upon  the  cursed  tool  of  thy  most  wicked  spite. 
Forsooth,  the  branches  of  this  wretched  tree  I'll  wound 
And  rob  its  pestilential  blossoms  of  their  might ! " 

So  thus,  she  giveth  vent  unto  her  foaming  ire, 
And  knowing  not  the  changeless  statutes  of  all  times, 
Herself,  amid  the  flames  of  hell,  prepares  the  pyre ; 
The  consecrated  penance  of  maternal  crimes. 

Yet  'fieath  th'  invisible  shelter  of  an  Angel's  wing 
This  sunlight-loving  infant  disinherited, 
Exhales  from  all  he  eats  and  drinks,  and  everything 
The  ever  sweet  ambrosia  and  the  nectar  red. 

He  trifles  with  the  winds  and  with  the  clouds  that  glide, 
About  the  way  unto  the  Cross,  he  loves  to  sing, 
The  spirit  on  his  pilgrimage ;  that  faithful  guide, 
Oft  weeps  to  see  him  joyful  like  a  bird  of  Spring. 

All  those  that  he  would  cherish  shrink  from  him  with  fear, 
And  some  that  waxen  bold  by  his  tranquility, 
Endeavour  hard  some  grievance  from  his  heart  to  tear, 
And  make  on  him  the  trial  of  their  ferocity. 

Within  the  bread  and  wine  outspread  for  his  repast 
To  mingle  dust  and  dirty  spittle  they  essay, 
And  everything  he  touches,  forth  they  slyly  cast, 
Or  scourge  themselves,  if  e'er  their  feet  betrod  his  way. 

His  wife  goes  round  proclaiming  in  the  crowded  quads — 
"  Since  he  can  find  my  body  beauteous  to  behold, 
Why  not  perform  the  office  of  those  ancient  gods 
And  like  unto  them,  redeck  myself  with  shining  gold  ?  " 

"  I'll  bathe  myself  with  incense,  spikenard  and  myrrh, 
With  genuflexions,  delicate  viandes  and  wine, 
To  see,  in  jest,  if  from  a  heart,  that  loves  me  dear, 
I  cannot  filch  away  the  hommages  divine." 

"And  when  of  these  impious  jokes  at  length  I  tire, 
My  frail  but  mighty  hands,  around  his  breast  entwined, 
With  nails,  like  harpies'  nails,  shall  cunningly  conspire 
The  hidden  path  unto  his  feeble  heart  to  find." 

"  And  like  a  youngling  bird  that  trembles  in  its  nest, 
I'll  pluck  his  heart  right  out;  within  its  own  blood  drowned, 
And  finally  to  satiate  my  favourite  beast, 
I'll  throw  it  with  intense  disdain  upon  the  ground  ! " 


Towards  the  Heavens  where  he  sees  the  sacred  grail 
The  poet  calmly  stretches  forth  his  pious  arms, 
Whereon  the  lightenings  from  his  lucid  spirit  veil 
The  sight  of  the  infuriated  mob  that  swarms. 

"  Oh  blest  be  thou,  Almighty  who  bestowest  pain, 
Like  some  divine  redress  for  our  infirmities, 
And  like  the  most  refreshing  and  the  purest  rain, 
To  sanctify  the  strong,  for  saintly  ecstasies." 

"  I  know  that  for  the  poet  thou  wilt  grant  a  chair, 
Among  the  Sainted  Legion  and  the  Blissful  ones, 
That  of  the  endless  feast  thou  wilt  accord  his  share 
To  him,  of  Virtues,  Dominations  and  of  Thrones." 

"  I  know,  that  Sorrow  is  that  nobleness  alone, 
Which  never  may  corrupted  be  by  hell  nor  curse, 
I  know,  in  order  to  enwreathe  my  mystic  crown 
I  must  inspire  the  ages  and  the  universe." 

"  And  yet  the  buried  jewels  of  Palmyra  old, 
.The  undiscovered  metals  and  the  pearly  sea 
Of  gems,  that  unto  me  you  show  could  never  hold 
Beside  this  diadem  of  blinding  brilliancy." 

"  For  it  shall  be  engendered  from  the  purest  fire 
Of  rays  primeval,  from  the  holy  hearth  amassed, 
Of  which  the  eyes  of  Mortals,  in  their  sheen  entire, 
Are  but  the  tarnished  mirrors,  sad  and  overcast ! " 


In  Nature's  temple,  living  columns  rise, 
Which  oftentimes  give  tongue  to  words  subdued, 
And  Man  traverses  this  symbolic  wood, 
Which  looks  at  him  with  half  familiar  eyes  » 

Like  lingering  echoes,  which  afar  confound 
Themselves  in  deep  and  sombre  unity, 
As  vast  as  Night,  and  like  transplendency, 
The  scents  and  colours  to  each  other  respond. 

And  scents  there  are,  like  infant's  flesh  as  chaste, 
As  sweet  as  oboes,  and  as  meadows  fair, 
And  others,  proud,  corrupted,  rich  and  vast, 

Which  have  the  expansion  of  infinity, 

Like  amber,  musk  and  frankincense  and  myrrh, 

That  sing  the  soul's  and  senses'  ecstasy. 


The  Sick    Muse 

Alas — my  poor  Muse — what  aileth  thee  now  ? 
Thine  eyes  are  bedimmed  with  the  visions  of  Night, 
And  silent  and  cold — I  perceive  on  thy  brow 
In  their  turns — Despair  and  Madness  alight. 

A  succubus  green,  or  a  hobgoblin  red, 
Has  it  poured  o'er  thee  Horror  and  Love  from  its  urn  ?    - 
Or  the  Nightmare  with  masterful  bearing  hath  led 
Thee  to  drown  in  the  depths  of  some  magic  Minturne? 

I  wish,  as  the  health-giving  fragrance  I  cull, 

That  thy  breast  with  strong  thoughts  could  for  ever  be  full, 

And  that  rhymthmic'ly  flowing — thy  Christian  blood 

Could  resemble  the  olden-time  metrical-flood, 
Where  each  in  his  turn  reigned  the  father  of  Rhymes 
Phoebus — and  Pan,  lord  of  Harvest-times. 


The   Venal    Muse 

Oh  Muse  of  my  heart — so  fond  of  palaces  old, 
Wilt  have — when  New- Year  speeds  its  wintry  blast, 
Amid  those  tedious  nights,  with  snow  o'ercast, 
A  log  to  warm  thy  feet,  benumbed  with  cold  ? 

Wilt  thou  thy  marbled  shoulders  then  revive 
With  nightly  rays  that  through  thy  shutters  peep  ? 
And — void  thy  purse  and  void  thy  palace — reap 
A  golden  hoard  within  some  azure  hive  ? 

Thou  must,  to  earn  thy  daily  bread,  each  night, 
Suspend  the  censer  like  an  acolyte, 
Te-Deums  sing,  with  sanctimonious  ease, 

Or  as  a  famished  mountebank,  with  jokes  obscene 

Essay  to  lull  the  vulgar  rabble's  spleen ; 

Thy  laughter  soaked  in  tears  which  no  one  sees. 


The  Evil   Monk 

The  cloisters  old,  expounded  on  their  walls 
With  paintings,  the  Beatic  Verity, 
The  which  —  ado'rning  their  religious  halls, 
Enriched  the  frigidness  of  their  Austerity. 

In  days  when  Christian  seeds  bloomed  o'er  the  land, 
Full  many  a  noble  monk  unknown  to-day, 
Upon  the  field  of  tombs  would  take  his  stand, 
Exalting  Death  in  rude  and  simple  way. 

My  soul  is  a  tomb  where  —  bad  monk  that  I  be  — 
I  dwell  and  search  its  depths  from  all  eternity, 
And  nought  bedecks  the  walls  of  the  odious  spot. 

Oh  sluggard  monk  !  when  shall  I  glean  aright 

From  the  living  spectacle  of  my  bitter  lot, 

To  mold  my  handy  work  and  mine  eyes'  Delight  ? 

The  Enemy 


My  childhood  was  nought  but  a  ravaging  storm, 
Enlivened  at  times  by  a  brilliant  sun  ; 
The  rain  and  the  winds  wrought  such  havoc  and  harm 
That  of  buds  on  my  plot  there  remains  hardly  one. 

Behold  now  the  Fall  of  ideas  I  have  reached, 
And  the  shovel  and  rake  one  must  therefore  resume, 
In  collecting  the  turf,  inundated  and  breached, 
Where  the  waters  dug  trenches  as  deep  as  a  tomb. 

And  yet  these  new  blossoms,  for  which  I  craved, 

Will  they  find  in  this  earth — like  a  shore  that  is  laved — 

The  mystical  fuel  which  vigour  imparts  ? 

Oh  misery  ! — Time  devours  our  lives, 

And  the  enemy  black,  which  consumeth  our  hearts 

On  the  blood  of  our  bodies,  increases  and  thrives  ! 

Man  and  the  Sea 

Free  man  !  the  sea  is  to  thee  ever  dear  ! 
The  sea  is  thy  mirror,  thou  regardest  thy  soul 
In  its  mighteous  waves  that  unendingly  roll, 
And  thy  spirit  is  yet  not  a  chasm  less  drear. 

Thou  delight'st  to  plunge  deep  in  thine  image  down  ; 
Thou  tak'st  it  with  eyes  and  with  arms  in  embrace, 
And  at  times  thine  own  inward  voice  would'st  efface 
With  the  sound  of  its  savage  ungovernable  moan. 

You  are  both  of  you,  sombre,  secretive  and  deep  : 
Oh  mortal,  thy  depths  are  foraye  unexplored, 
Oh  sea  —  no  one  knoweth  thy  dazzling  hoard, 
You  both  are  so  jealous  your  secrets  to  keep  ! 

And  endless  ages  have  wandered  by, 
Yet  still  without  pity  or  mercy  you  fight, 
So  mighty  in  plunder  and  death  your  delight  : 
Oh  wrestlers  !  so  constant  in  enmity  ! 


I  arn  lovely,  O  mortals,  like  a  dream  of  stone, 
And  my  bosom,  where  each  one  gets  bruised  in  turn, 
To  inspire  the  love  of  a  poet  is  prone, 
Like  matter  eternally  silent  and  stern. 

As  an  unfathomed  sphinx,  enthroned  by  the  Nile, 
My  heart  a  swan's  whiteness  with  granite  combines, 
And  I  hate  every  movement,  displacing  the  lines, 
And  never  I  weep  and  never  I  smile. 

The  poets  in  front  of  mine  attitudes  fine 

(Which  the  proudest  of  monuments  seem  to  implant), 

To  studies  profound  all  their  moments  assign, 

For  I  have  all  these  docile  swains  to  enchant — 
Two  mirrors,  which  Beauty  in  all  things  ignite  : 
Mine  eyes,  my  large  eyes,  of  eternal  Light ! 

The  Ideal 

It  could  ne'er  be  those  beauties  of  ivory  vignettes  ; 
The  varied  display  of  a  worthless  age, 
Nor  puppet-like  figures  with  castoncts, 
That  ever  an  heart  like  mine  could  engage. 

I  leave  to  Gavarni,  that  poet  of  chlorosis, 
His  hospital-beauties  in  troups  that  whirl, 
For  I  cannot  discover  amid  his  pale  roses 
A  flower  to  resemble  my  scarlet  ideal. 

Since,  what  for  this  fathomless  heart  I  require 

Is — Lady  Macbeth  you  !  in  crime  so  dire ; 

— An  ^Eschylus  dream  transposed  from  the  South — 

Or  thee,  oh  great  "  Night "  of  Michael-Angelo  born, 
Who  so  calmly  thy  limbs  in  strange  posture  hath  drawn, 
Whose  allurements  are  framed  for  a  Titan's  mouth. 

The  Giantess 

I  should  have  loved — erewhile  when  Heaven  conceived 
Each  day,  some  child  abnormal  and  obscene, 
Beside  a  maiden  giantess  to  have  lived, 
Like  a  luxurious  cat  at  the  feet  of  a  queen  ; 

To  see  her  body  flowering  with  her  soul, 
And  grow,  unchained,  in  awe-inspiring  art, 
Within  the  mists  across  her  eyes  that  stole 
To  divine  the  fires  entombed  within  her  heart. 

And  oft  to  scramble  o'er  her  mighty  limbs, 

And  climb  the  slopes  of  her  enormous  knees, 

Or  in  summer  when  the  scorching  sunlight  streams 

Across  the  country,  to  recline  at  ease, 
And  slumber  in  the  shadow  of  her  breast 
Like  an  hamlet  'neath  the  mountain-crest. 


Hymn  to   Beauty 

O  Beauty  !  dost  thou  generate  from  Heaven  or  from  Hell  ? 

Within  thy  glance,  so  diabolic  and  divine, 

Confusedly  both  wickedness  and  goodness  dwell, 

And  hence  one  might  compare  thee  unto  sparkling  wine. 

Thy  look  containeth  both  the  dawn  and  sunset  stars, 
Thy  perfumes,  as  upon  a  sultry  night  exhale, 
Thy  kiss  a  philter,  and  thy  mouth  a  Grecian  vase, 
That  renders  heroes  cowardly  and  infants  hale. 

Yea,  art  thou  from  the  planets,  or  the  fiery  womb  ? 
The  demon  follows  in  thy  train,  with  magic  fraught, 
Thou  scatter'st  seeds  haphazardly  of  joy  and  doom, 
Thou  govern'st  everything,  but  answer'st  unto  nought. 

O  Loveliness  !  thou  spurnest  corpses  with  delight, 
Among  thy  jewels,  Horror  hath  such  charms  for  thee, 
And  Murder  'mid  thy  mostly  cherished  trinklets  bright, 
Upon  thy  massive  bosom  dances  amorously. 

The  blinded,  fluttering  moth  towards  the  candle  flies, 
Then  frizzles,  falls,  and  falters—"  Blessings  unto  thee  " — 
The  panting  swain  that  o'er  his  beauteous  mistress  sighs, 
Seems  like  the  Sick,  that  stroke  their  gravestones  lovingly. 

What  matter,  if  thou  comest  from  the  Heavens  or  Hell, 
O  Beauty,  frightful  ghoul,  ingenuous  and  obscure  ! 
So  long  thine  eyes,  thy  smile,  to  me  the  way  can  tell 
Towards  that  Infinite  I  love,  but  never  saw. 

From  God  or  Satan  ?   Angel,  Mermaid,  Proserpine  ? 
What  matter  if  thou  makest — blithe,  voluptuous  sprite — 
With  rhythms,  perfumes,  visions — O  mine  only  queen  ! — 
The  universe  less  hideous  and  the  hours  less  trite. 


Exotic   Perfume 

When,  with  closed  eyes,  on  a  hot  afternoon, 
The  scent  of  thine  ardent  breast  I  inhale, 
Celestial  vistas  my  spirit  assail ; 
Caressed  by  the  flames  of  an  endless  sun. 

A  langorous  island,  where  Nature  abounds 

With  exotic  trees  and  luscious  fruit; 

And  with  men  whose  bodies  are  slim  and  astute, 

And  with  women  whose  frankness  delights  and  astounds. 

By  thy  perfume  enticed  to  this  region  remote, 
A  port  I  see,  laden  with  mast  and  with  boat, 
Still  wearied  and  torn  by  the  distant  brine ; 

While  the  tamarisk-odours  that  dreamily  throng 
The  air,  round  my  slumberous  senses  intwine, 
And  mix,  in  my  soul,  with  the  mariners'  song. 


La  Chevelure 

O  fleece,  that  foams  down  unto  the  shoulders  bare  ! 
O  curls,  O  scents  which  lovely  languidness  exhale  ! 
Delight !  to  fill  this  alcove's  sombre  atmosphere 
With  memories,  sleeping  deep  within  this  tress  of  hair, 
I'll  wave  it  in  the  evening  breezes  like  a  veil ! 

The  shores  of  Africa,  and  Asia's  burning  skies, 

A  world  forgotten,  distant,  nearly  dead  and  spent, 

Within  thy  depths,  O  aromatic  forest !  lies. 

And  like  to  spirits  floating  unto  melodies, 

Mine  own,  Beloved  !  glides  within  thy  sacred  scent. 

There  I  will  hasten,  where  the  trees  and  humankind 
With  languor  lull  beside  the  hot  and  silent  sea ; 
Strong  tresses  bear  me,  be  to  me  the  waves  and  wind  1 
Within  thy  fragrance  lies  a  dazzling  dream  confined 
Of  sails  and  masts  and  flames — O  lake  of  ebony  ! 

A  loudly  echoing  harbour,  where  my  soul  may  hold 
To  quaff,  the  silver  cup  of  colours,  scents  and  sounds, 
Wherein  the  vessels  glide  upon  a  sea  of  gold, 
And  stretch  their  mighty  arms,  the  glory  to  enfold 
Of  virgin  skies,  where  never-ending  heat  abounds. 

I'll  plunge  my  brow,  enamoured  with  voluptuousness 
Within  this  darkling  ocean  of  infinitude, 
Until  my  subtle  spirit,  which  thy  waves  caress, 
Shall  find  you  once  again,  O  fertile  weariness ; 
Unending  lullabye  of  perfumed  lassitude  ! 


Ye  tresses  blue— recess  of  strange  and  sombre  shades, 
Ye  make  the  azure  of  the  starry  Realm  immense ; 
Upon  the  downy  beeches,  by  your  curls'  cascades, 
Among  your  mingling  fragrances,  my  spirit  wades 
To  cull  the  musk  and  cocoa-nut  and  lotus  scents. 

Long— foraye— my  hand,  within  thy  heavy  mane, 
Shall  scatter  rubies,  pearls,  sapphires  eternally, 
And  thus  my  soul's  desire  for  thee  shall  never  wane ; 
For  art  not  thou  the  oasis  where  I  dream  and  drain 
With  draughts  profound,  the  golden  wine  of  memory  ? 

Sonnet  XXVI 1 1 

With  pearly  robes  that  wave  within  the  wind, 
Even  when  she  walks,  she  seems  to  dance, 
Like  swaying  serpents  round  those  wands  entwined 
Which  fakirs  ware  in  rhythmic  elegance. 

So  like  the  desert's  Blue,  and  the  sands  remote, 
Both,  deaf  to  mortal  suffering  and  to  strife, 
Or  like  the  sea-weeds  'neath  the  waves  that  float, 
Indifferently  she  moulds  her  budding  life. 

Her  polished  eyes  are  made  of  minerals  bright, 
And  in  her  mien,  symbolical  and  cold, 
Wherein  an  angel  mingles  with  a  sphinx  of  old, 

Where  all  is  gold,  and  steel,  and  gems,  and  light, 
There  shines,  just  like  a  useless  star  eternally, 
The  sterile  woman's  frigid  majesty. 


Posthumous   Remorse 

Ah,  when  thou  shalt  slumber,  my  darkling  love, 
Beneath  a  black  marble-made  statuette, 
And  when  thou'lt  have  nought  for  thy  house  or  alcove, 
But  a  cavernous  den  and  a  damp  oubliette. 

When  the  tomb-stone,  oppressing  thy  timorous  breast, 
And  thy  hips  drooping  sweetly  with  listless  decay, 
The  pulse  and  desires  of  mine  heart  shall  arrest, 
And  thy  feet  from  pursuing  their  adventurous  way, 

Then  the  grave,  that  dark  friend  of  my  limitless  dreams 
(For  the  grave  ever  readeth  the  poet  aright), 
Amid  those  long  nights,  which  no  slumber  redeems 

'Twill  query — "  What  use  to  thee,  incomplete  spright 
That  thou  ne'er  hast  unfathomed  the  tears  of  the  dead"? — 
Then  the  worms  will  gnaw  deep  at  thy  body,  like  Dread. 

The  Balcony 

Oh,  Mother  of  Memories  !  Mistress  of  Mistresses  ! 
Oh,  thou  all  my  pleasures,  oh,  thou  all  my  prayers  ! 
Can'st  thou  remember  those  luscious  caresses, 
The  charm  of  the  hearth  and  the  sweet  evening  airs  ? 
Oh,  Mother  of  Memories,  Mistress  of  Mistresses  ! 

Those  evenings  illumed  by  the  glow  of  the  coal, 
And  those  roseate  nights  with  their  vaporous  wings, 
How  calm  was  thy  breast  and  how  good  was  thy  soul, 
'Twas  then  we  uttered  imperishable  things, 
Those  evenings  illumed  by  the  glow  of  the  coal. 

How  lovely  the  suns  on  those  hot,  autumn  nights  ! 
How  vast  were  the  heavens  !  and  the  heart  how  hale  ! 
As  I  leaned  towards  you — oh,  my  Queen  of  Delights, 
The  scent  of  thy  blood  I  seemed  to  inhale. 
How  lovely  the  sun  on  those  hot,  autumn  nights ! 

The  shadows  of  night-time  grew  dense  like  a  pall, 
And  deep  through  the  darkness  thine  eyes  I  divined, 
And  I  drank  of  thy  breath — oh  sweetness,  oh  gall, 
And  thy  feet  in  my  brotherly  hands  reclined, 
The  shadows  of  Night-time  grew  dense  like  a  pall. 

I  know  how  to  call  forth  those  moments  so  dear, 
And  to  live  my  Past — laid  on  thy  knees — once  more, 
For  where  should  I  seek  for  thy  beauties  but  here 
In  thy  langorous  heart  and  thy  body  so  pure  ? 
I  know  how  to  call  forth  those  moments  so  dear. 

Those  perfumes,  those  infinite  kisses  and  sighs, 
Are  they  born  in  some  gulf  to  our  plummets  denied  ? 
Like  rejuvenate  suns  that  mount  up  to  the  skies, 
That  first  have  been  cleansed  in  the  depths  of  the  tide ; 
Oh,  perfumes  !  oh,  infinite  kisses  and  sighs  ! 


The   Possessed  One 

The  sun  is  enveloped  in  crape  !  like  it, 

0  Moon  of  my  Life  !  wrap  thyself  up  in  shade ; 
At  will,  smoke  or  slumber,  be  silent,  be  staid, 
And  dive  deep  down  in  Dispassion's  dark  pit. 

1  cherish  thee  thus  !     But  if  'tis  thy  mood, 
Like  a  star  that  from  out  its  penumbra  appears, 
To  float  in  the  regions  where  madness  careers, 

Fair  dagger  !  burst  forth  from  thy  sheath  !  'tis  good. 

Yea,  light  up  thine  eyes  at  the  Fire  of  Renown  ! 
Or  kindle  desire  by  the  looks  of  some  clown  ! 
Thine  All  is  my  joy,  whether  dull  or  aflame  ! 

Just  be  what  thou  wilt,  black  night,  dawn  divine, 
There  is  not  a  nerve  in  my  trembling  frame 
But  cries,  "  I  adore  thee,  Beelzebub  mine ! " 


Semper  Eadem 

"  From  whence  it  comes,  you  ask,  this  gloom  acute, 
Like  waves  that  o'er  the  rocky  headland  fall  ?  " 
— When  once  our  hearts  have  gathered  in  their  fruit, 
To  live  is  a  curse  !  a  secret  known  to  all, 

A  grief,  quite  simple,  nought  mysterious, 
And  like  your  joy — for  all,  both  loud  and  shrill, 
Nay  cease  to  clammour,  be  not  e'er  so  curious ! 
And  yet  although  your  voice  is  sweet,  be  still ! 

Be  still,  O  soul,  with  rapture  ever  rife ! 

O  mouth,  with  the  childish  smile  !     Far  more  than  Life, 

The  subtle  bonds  of  Death  around  us  twine. 

Let — let  my  heart,  the  wine  of  falsehood  drink, 
And  dream-like,  deep  within  your  fair  eyes  sink, 
And  in  the  shade  of  thy  lashes  long  recline  ! 

All  Entire 

The  Demon,  in  my  lofty  vault, 
This  morning  came  to  visit  me, 
And  striving  me  to  find  at  fault, 
He  said,  "  Fain  would  I  know  of  thee  ; 

"  Among  the  many  beauteous  things, 
— All  which  her  subtle  grace  proclaim — 
Among  the  dark  and  rosy  things, 
Which  go  to  make  her  charming  frame, 

"  Which  is  the  sweetest  unto  thee  "  ? 

My  soul !  to  Him  thou  didst  retort — 
"  Since  all  with  her  is  destiny, 

Of  preference  there  can  be  nought. 

When  all  transports  me  with  delight, 
If  aught  deludes  I  can  not  know, 
She  either  lulls  one  like  the  Night, 
Or  dazzles  like  the  Morning-glow. 

That  harmony  is  too  divine, 
Which  governs  all  her  body  fair, 
For  powerless  mortals  to  define 
In  notes  the  many  concords  there. 

O  mystic  metamorphosis 

Of  all  my  senses  blent  in  one  ! 

Her  voice  a  beauteous  perfume  is, 

Her  breath  makes  music,  chaste  and  wan. 


Sonnet  XLIII 

What  sayest  thou,  to-night,  poor  soul  so  drear, 
What  sayest — heart  erewhile  engulfed  in  gloom, 
To  the  very  lovely,  very  chaste,  and  very  dear, 
Whose  god-like  look  hath  made  thee  to  re-bloom  ? 

To  her,  with  pride  we  chant  an  echoing  Hymn, 
For  nought  can  touch  the  sweetness  of  her  sway ; 
Her  flesh  ethereal  as  the  seraphim, 
Her  eyes  with  robe  of  light  our  souls  array. 

And  be  it  in  the  night,  or  solitude, 
Among  the  streets  or  'mid  the  multitude, 
Her  shadow,  torch-like,  dances  in  the  air, 

And  murmurs,  "  I,  the  Beautiful  proclaim — 
That  for  my  sake,  alone  ye  love  the  Fair ; 
I  am  the  Guardian  Angel,  Muse  and  Dame  ! " 

The   Living  Torch 

They  stand  before  me  now,  those  eyes  that  shine, 
No  doubt  inspired  by  an  Angel  wise; 
They  stand,  those  God-like  brothers  that  are  mine, 
And  pour  their  diamond  fires  in  mine  eyes. 

From  all  transgressions,  from  all  snares,  they  save, 
Towards  the  Path  of  Joy  they  guide  my  ways  ; 
They  are  my  servants,  and  I  am  their  slave ; 
And  all  my  soul,  this  living  torch  obeys. 

Ye  charming  Eyes — ye  have  those  mystic  beams, 
Of  candles,  burning  in  full  day ;  the  sun 
Awakes,  yet  kills  not  their  fantastic  gleams  : 

Ye  sing  the  Awak'ning,  they  the  dark  oblivion ; 
The  Awak'ning  of  my  spirit  ye  proclaim, 
O  stars — no  sun  can  ever  kill  your  flame  ! 

The   Spiritual   Dawn 

When  the  morning  white  and  rosy  breaks, 
With  the  gnawing  Ideal,  upon  the  debauchee, 
By  the  power  of  a  strange  decree, 
Within  the  sotted  beast  an  Angel  wakes. 

The  mental  Heaven's  inaccessible  blue, 
For  wearied  mortals  that  still  dream  and  mourn, 
Expands  and  sinks  ;  towards  the  chasm  drawn. 
Thus,  cherished  goddess,  Being  pure  and  true — 

Upon  the  rests  of  foolish  orgy-nights 

Thine  image,  more  sublime,  more  pink,  more  clear, 

Before  my  staring  eyes  is  ever  there. 

The  sun  has  darkened  all  the  candle  lights ; 
And  thus  thy  spectre  like  the  immortal  sun, 
Is  ever  victorious — thou  resplendent  one ! 

Evening   Harmony 

The  hour  approacheth,  when,  as  their  stems  incline, 
The  flowers  evaporate  like  an  incense  urn, 
And  sounds  and  scents  in  the  vesper  breezes  turn ; 
A  melancholy  waltz — and  a  drowsiness  divine. 

The  flowers  evaporate  like  an  incense  urn, 
The  viol  vibrates  like  the  wailing  of  souls  that  repine. 
A  melancholy  waltz — and  a  drowsiness  divine, 
The  skies  like  a  mosque  are  beautiful  and  stern. 

The  viol  vibrates  like  the  wailing  of  souls  that  repine  ; 
Sweet  souls  that  shrink  from  chaos  vast  and  etern, 
The  skies  like  a  mosque  are  beautiful  and  stern, 
The  sunset  drowns  within  its  blood-red  brine. 

Sweet  souls  that  shrink  from  chaos  vast  and  etern, 
Essay  the  wreaths  of  their  faded  Past  to  entwine, 
The  sunset  drowns  within  its  blood-red  brine, 
Thy  thought  within  me  glows  like  an  incense  urn. 


Overcast  Sky 

Meseemeth  thy  glance,  soft  enshrouded  with  dew, 
Thy  mysterious  eyes  (are  they  grey,  green  or  blue  ?), 
Alternately  cruel,  and  tender,  and  shy, 
Reflect  both  the  languor  and  calm  of  the  sky. 

Thou  recallest  those  white  days — with  shadows  caressed, 
Engendering  tears  from  th'  enraptured  breast, 
When  racked  by  an  anguish  unfathomed  that  weeps, 
The  nerves,  too  awake,  jibe  the  spirit  that  sleeps. 

At  times — thou  art  like  those  horizons  divine, 
Where  the  suns  of  the  nebulous  seasons  decline ; 
How  resplendent  art  thou — O  pasturage  vast, 
Illumed  by  the  beams  of  a  sky  overcast ! 

O  !  dangerous  dame — oh  seductive  clime  ! 
As  well,  will  I  love  both  thy  snow  and  thy  rime, 
And  shall  I  know  how  from  the  frosts  to  entice 
Delights  that  are  keener  than  iron  and  ice  ? 


Invitation  to  a  Journey 

My  sister,  my  dear 

Consider  how  fair, 
Together  to  live  it  would  be ! 

Down  yonder  to  fly 

To  love,  till  we  die, 
In  the  land  which  resembles  thee. 

Those  suns  that  rise 

'Neath  erratic  skies, 
— No  charm  could  be  like  unto  theirs — 

So  strange  and  divine, 

Like  those  eyes  of  thine 
Which  glow  in  the  midst  of  their  tears. 

There,  all  is  order  and  loveliness, 
Luxury,  calm  and  voluptuousness. 

The  tables  and  chairs, 
Polished  bright  by  the  years, 

Would  decorate  sweetly  our  rooms, 
And  the  rarest  of  flowers 
Would  twine  round  our  bowers 

And  mingle  their  amber  perfumes  :. 


The  ceilings  arrayed, 

And  the  mirrors  inlaid, 
This  Eastern  splendour  among, 

Would  furtively  steal 

O'er  our  s&uls,  and  appeal 
With  its  tranquillous  native  tongue. 

There,  all  is  order  and  loveliness, 
Luxury,  calm  and  voluptuousness. 

In  the  harbours,  peep, 

At  the  vessels  asleep 
(Their  humour  is  always  to  roam), 

Yet  it  is  but  to  grant 

Thy  smallest  want 
From  the  ends  of  the  earth  that  they  come, 

The  sunsets  beam 

Upon  meadow  and  stream, 
And  upon  the  city  entire 

'Neath  a  violet  crest, 

The  world  sinks  to  rest, 
Illumed  by  a  golden  fire. 

There,  all  is  order  and  loveliness, 
Luxury,  calm  and  voluptuousness. 


Imagine  Diana  in  gorgeous  array, 

How  into  the  forests  and  thickets  she  flies, 

With  her  hair  in  the  breezes,  and  flushed  for  the  fray, 

How  the  very  best  riders  she  proudly  defies. 

Have  you  seen  Theroigne,  of  the  blood-thirsty  heart, 
As  an  unshod  herd  to  attack  he  bestirs, 
With  cheeks  all  inflamed,  playing  up  to  his  part, 
As  he  goes,  sword  in  hand,  up  the  royal  stairs  ? 

And  so  is  Sisina — yet  this  warrior  sweet, 

Has  a  soul  with  compassion  and  kindness  replete, 

Inspired  by  drums  and  by  powder,  her  sway 

Knows  how  to  concede  to  the  supplicants'  prayers, 
And  her  bosom,  laid  waste  by  the  flames,  has  alway, 
For  those  that  are  worthy,  a  fountain  of  tears. 


To  a  Creolean  Lady 

In  a  country  perfumed  with  the  sun's  embrace, 
I  knew  'neath  a  dais  of  purpled  palms, 
And  branches  where  idleness  weeps  o'er  one's  face, 
A  Creolean  lady  of  unknown  charms. 

Her  tint,  pale  and  warm — this  bewitching  bride, 
Displays  a  nobly  nurtured  mien, 
Courageous  and  grand  like  a  huntsman,  her  stride ; 
A  tranquil  smile  and  eyes  serene. 

If,  madam,  you'd  go  to  the  true  land  of  gain, 
By  the  banks  of  the  verdant  Loire  or  the  Seine, 
How  worthy  to  garnish  some  pile  of  renown. 

You'd  awake  in  the  calm  of  some  shadowy  nest, 

A  thousand  songs  in  the  poet's  breast, 

That  your  eyes  would  inspire  far  more  than  your  brown. 


Moesta  et  Errabunda 

Oh,  Agatha,  tell  !  does  thy  heart  not  at  times  fly  away  ? 
Far  from  the  city  impure  and  the  lowering  sea, 
To  another  ocean  that  blinds  with  its  dazzling  array, 
So  blue  and  so  clear  and  profound,  like  virginity  ? 
Oh,  Agatha,  tell !  does  thy  heart  not  at  times  fly  away  ? 

The  sea,  the  vast  ocean  our  travail  and  trouble  consoles ! 

What  demon  hath  gifted  the  sea  with  a  voice  from  on  high, 

To  sing  us  (attuned  to  an  ^Eolus-organ  that  rolls 

Forth  a  grumbling  burden)  a  lenitive  lullabye  ? 

The  sea,  the  vast  ocean  our  travail  and  trouble  consoles ! 

Oh,  carry  me,  waggons,  oh,  sailing-ships,  help  me  depart ! 
Far,  far,  here  the  dust  is  quite  wet  with   our   showering 


Oh,  say  !  it  is  true  that  Agatha's  desolate  heart, 
Proclaimeth,  "  Away  from  remorse,  and  from  crimes,  and 

from  cares," 
Oh,  carry  me,  waggons,  oh,  sailing  ships,  help  me  depart ! 

How  distant  you  seem  to  be,  perfumed  Elysian  fields  ! 
Wherein  there  is  nothing  but  sunshine  and  love  and  glee ; 
Where  all  that  one  loves  is  so  worthy,  and  lovingly  yields, 
And  our  hearts  float  about  in  the  purest  of  ecstasy, 
How  distant  you  seem  to  be,  perfumed  Elysian  fields  ! 

But  the  green  paradise  of  those  transient  infantile  loves, 
The  strolls,  and  the  songs,  and  the  kisses,  and  bunches  of 


The  viols  vibrating  beyond,  in  the  mountainous  groves, 
With  the  chalice  of  wine  and  the  evening,  entwined,  in  the 

But  the  green  paradise  of  those  transient  infantile  loves. 

That  innocent  heaven  o'erflowing  with  furtive  delight, 

Than  China  or  India,  is  it  still  further  away  ? 

Or,  could  one  with  pityful  prayers  bring  it  back  to   our 

sight  ? 

Or  yet  with  a  silvery  voice  o'er  the  ages  convey 
That  innocent  heaven  o'erflowing  with  furtive  delight ! 


The  Ghost 

Just  like  an  angel  with  evil  eye, 
I  shall  return  to  thee  silently, 
Upon  thy  bower  I'll  alight, 
With  falling  shadows  of  the  night 

With  thee,  my  brownie,  I'll  commune, 
And  give  thee  kisses  cold  as  the  moon, 
And  with  a  serpent's  moist  embrace, 
I'll  crawl  around  thy  resting-place. 

And  when  the  livid  morning  falls, 
Thou'lt  find  alone  the  empty  walls, 
And  till  the  evening,  cold  'twill  be. 

As  others  with  their  tenderness, 
Upon  thy  life  and  youthfulness, 
I'll  reign  alone  with  dread  o'er  thee. 


Autumn  Song 


They  ask  me — thy  crystalline  eyes,  so  acute, 
"  Odd  lover — why  am  I  to  thee  so  dear  ?  " 
— Be  sweet  and  keep  silent,  my  heart,  wrifch  is  sear, 
For  all,  save  the  rude  and  untutored  brute, 

Is  loth  its  infernal  depths  to  reveal, 

And  its  dissolute  motto  engraven  with  fire, 

Oh  charmer  !  whose  arms  endless  slumber  inspire  ! 

I  abominate  passion  and  wit  makes  me  ill. 

So  let  us  love  gently.     Within  his  retreat, 
Foreboding,  Love  seeks  for  his  arrows  a  prey, 
I  know  all  the  arms  of  his  battle  array. 

Delirium  and  loathing — O  pale  Marguerite  ! 
Like  me,  art  thou  not  an  autumnal  ray, 
Alas  my  so  white,  my  so  cold  Marguerite  ! 


Sadness  of  the  Moon-Goddess 

To-night  the  Moon  dreams  with  increased  weariness, 
Like  a  beauty  stretched  forth  on  a  downy  heap 
Of  rugs,  while  her  languorous  fingers  caress 
The  contour  of  her  breasts,  before  falling  to  sleep. 

On  the  satin  back  of  the  avalanche  soft, 
She  falls  into  lingering  swoons,  as  she  dies, 
While  she  lifteth  her  eyes  to  white  visions  aloft, 
Which  like  efflorescence  float  up  to  the  skies. 

When  at  times,  in  her  languor,  down  on  to  this  sphere, 
She  slyly  lets  trickle  a  furtive  tear, 
A  poet,  desiring  slumber  to  shun, 

Takes  up  this  pale  tear  in  the  palm  of  his  hand 
(The  colours  of  which  like  an  opal  blend), 
And  buries  it  far  from  the  eyes  of  the  sun. 



All  ardent  lovers  and  all  sages  prize, 
— As  ripening  years  incline  upon  their  brows — 
The  mild  and  mighty  cats— pride  of  the  house — 
That  like  unto  them  are  indolent,  stern  and  wise. 

The^friends  of  Learning  and  of  Ecstasy, 
They  search  for  silence  and  the  horrors  of  gloom ; 
The^devil  had  used  them  for  his  steeds  of  Doom, 
Could  he  alone  have  bent  their  pride  to  slavery. 

When  musing,  they  display  those  outlines  chaste, 
Of  the  great  sphinxes — stretched  o'er  the  sandy  waste, 
That  seem  to  slumber  deep  in  a  dream  without  end  : 

From  out  their  loins  a  fountainous  furnace  flies, 
And  grains  of  sparkling  gold,  as  fine  as  sand, 
Bestar  the  mystic  pupils  of  their  eyes. 


Beneath  the  shades  of  sombre  yews, 
The  silent  owls  sit  ranged  in  rows, 
Like  ancient  idols,  strangely  pose, 
And  darting  fiery  eyes,  they  muse. 

Immovable,  they  sit  and  gaze, 
Until  the  melancholy  hour, 
At  which  the  darknesses  devour 
The  faded  sunset's  slanting  rays. 

Their  attitude,  instructs  the  wise, 
That  he — within  this  world — who  flies 
From  tumult  and  from  merriment ; 

The  man  allured  by  a  passing  face, 

For  ever  bears  the  chastisement 

Of  having  wished  to  change  his  place. 



Oft  Music  possesses  me  like  the  seas ! 

To  my  planet  pale, 
'Neath  a  ceiling  of  mist,  in  the  lofty  breeze, 

I  set  my  sail. 

With  inflated  lungs  and  expanded  chest, 

Like  to  a  sail, 
On  the  backs  of  the  heaped-up  billows  I  rest — 

Which  the  shadows  veil — 

I  feel  all  the  anguish  within  me  arise 

Of  a  ship  in  distress ; 
The  tempest,  the  rain,  'neath  the  lowering  skies, 

My  body  caress : 

At  times,  the  calm  pool  or  the  mirror  clear 
Of  my  despair ! 

The  Joyous   Defunct 

Where  snails  abound — in  a  juicy  soil, 

I  will  dig  for  myself  a  fathomless  grave, 

Where  at  leisure  mine  ancient  bones  I  can  coil, 

And  sleep — quite  forgotten — like  a  shark  'neath  the  wave. 

I  hate  every  tomb — I  abominate  wills, 
And  rather  than  tears  from  the  world  to  implore, 
I  would  ask  of  the  crows  with  their  vampire  bills 
To  devour  every  bit  of  my  carcass  impure. 

Oh  worms,  without  eyes,  without  ears,  black  friends  ! 
To  you  a  defunct-one,  rejoicing,  descends, 
Enlivened  Philosophers — offspring  of  Dung  ! 

Without  any  qualms,  o'er  my  wreckage  spread, 

And  tell  if  some  torment  there  still  can  be  wrung 

For  this  soul-less  old  frame  that  is  dead  'midst  the  dead  ! 


The   Broken   Bell 

How  sweet  and  bitter,  on  a  winter  night, 

Beside  the  palpitating  fire  to  list, 

As,  slowly,  distant  memories  alight, 

To  sounds  of  chimes  that  sing  across  the  mist. 

Oh,  happy  is  that  bell  with  hearty  throat, 
Which  neither  age  nor  time  can  e'er  defeat, 
Which  faithfully  uplifts  its  pious  note, 
Like  an  ag&d  soldier  on  his  beat. 

For  me,  my  soul  is  cracked,  and  'mid  her  cares, 
Would  often  fill  with  her  songs  the  midnight  airs ; 
And  oft  it  chances  that  her  feeble  moan 

Is  like  the  wounded  warrior's  fainting  groan, 
WTho  by  a  lake  of  blood,  'neath  bodies  slain, 
In  anguish  falls,  and  never  moves  again. 


The  rainy  moon  of  all  the  world  is  weary, 
And  from  its  urn  a  gloomy  cold  pours  down, 
Upon  the  pallid  inmates  of  the  mortuary, 
And  on  the  neighbouring-  outskirts  of  the  town. 

My  wasted  cat,  in  searching  for  a  litter, 
Bestirs  its  mangy  paws  from  post  to  post ; 
(A  poet's  soul  that  wanders  in  the  gutter, 
With  the  jaded  voice  of  a  shiv'ring  ghost). 

The  smoking  pine-log,  while  the  drone  laments, 
Accompanies  the  wheezy  pendulum, 
The  while  amidst  a  haze  of  dirty  scents, 

— Those  fatal  remnants  of  a  sick  man's  room — 
The  gallant  knave  of  hearts  and  queen  of  spades 
Relate  their  ancient  amorous  escapades. 



Great  forests,  you  alarm  me  like  a  mighty  fane ; 
Like  organ-tones  you  roar,  and  in  our  hearts  of  stone, 
Where  ancient  sobs  vibrate,  O  halls  of  endless  pain  ! 
The  answering  echoes  of  your  "  De  Profundis  "  moan. 

I  hate  thee,  Ocean !  hate  thy  tumults  and  thy  throbs, 
My  spirit  finds  them  in  himself.     This  bitter  glee 
Of  vanquished  mortals,  full  of  insults  and  of  sobs, 
I  hear  it  in  the  mighteous  laughter  of  the  sea. 

O  starless  night !  thy  loveliness  my  soul  inhales, 
Without  those  starry  rays  which  speak  a  language  known, 
For  I  desire  the  dark,  the  naked  and  the  lone. 

But  e'en  those  darknesses  themselves  to  me  are  veils, 
Where  live — and,  by  the  millions  'neath  my  eyelids  prance, 
Long,  long  departed  Beings  with  familiar  glance. 

Magnetic  Horror 

"  Beneath  this  sky,  so  livid  and  strange, 
Tormented  like  thy  destiny, 
What  thoughts  within  thy  spirit  range 
Themselves? — O  libertine  reply." 

— With  vain  desires,  for  ever  torn 
Towards  the  uncertain,  and  the  vast, 
And  yet,  like  Ovid — I'll  not  mourn — 
Who  from  his  Roman  Heaven  was  cast. 

O  heavens,  turbulent  as  the  streams, 

In  you  I  mirror  forth  my  pride ! 

Your  clouds,  which  clad  in  mourning,  glide, 

Are  the  hearses  of  my  dreams, 
And  in  your  illusion  lies  the  hell, 
Wherein  my  heart  delights  to  dwell. 


The  Lid 

Where'er  he  may  rove,  upon  sea  or  on  land, 
'Neath  a  fiery  sky  or  a  pallid  sun, 
Be  he  Christian  or  one  of  Cythera's  band, 
Opulent  Croesus  or  beggar — 'tis  one, 

Whether  citizen,  peasant  or  vagabond  he, 

Be  his  little  brain  active  or  dull.     Everywhere, 

Man  feels  the  terror  of  mystery, 

And  looks  upon  high  with  a  glance  full  of  fear. 

The  Heaven  above,  that  oppressive  wall ; 
A  ceiling  lit  up  in  some  lewd  music  hall, 
Where  the  actors  step  forth  on  a  blood-red  soil 

The  eremite's  hope,  and  the  dread  of  the  sot, 
The  Sky  ;  that  black  lid  of  a  mighty  pot, 
Where,  vast  and  minute,  human  Races  boil. 


Bertha's  Eyes 

The  loveliest  eyes  you  can  scorn  with  your  wondrous  glow : 
O  !  beautiful  childish  eyes  there  abounds  in  your  light, 
A  something  unspeakably  tender  and  good  as  the  night : 
O  !  eyes  !  over  me  your  enchanting  darkness  let  flow. 

Large  eyes  of  my  child  !  O  Arcana  profoundly  adored  ! 
Ye  resemble  so  closely  those  caves  in  the  magical  creek  ; 
Where  within  the  deep  slumbering  shade  of  some  petrified 

There  shines,  undiscovered,  the  gems  of  a  dazzling  hoard. 

My  child  has  got  eyes  so  profound  and  so  dark  and  so  vast, 
Like  thee !  oh  unending  Night,  and  thy  mystical  shine : 
Their  flames  are  those  thoughts  that  with  Love  and  with 

Faith  combine, 
And  sparkle  deep  down  in  the  depths  so  alluring  or  chaste. 


The  Set  of  the  Romantic  Sun 

How  beauteous  the  sun  as  it  rises  supreme, 
Like  an  explosion  that  greets  us  from  above, 
Oh,  happy  is  he  that  can  hail  with  love, 
Its  decline,  more  glorious  far,  than  a  dream. 

I  saw  flower,  furrow,  and  brook.     ...     I  recall 
How  they  swooned  like  a  tremulous  heart  'neath  the  sun, 
Let  us  haste  to  the  sky-line,  'tis  late,  let  us  run, 
At  least  to  catch  one  slanting  ray  ere  it  fall. 

But  the  god,  who  eludes  me,  I  chase  all  in  vain, 

The  night,  irresistible,  plants  its  domain, 

Black  mists  and  vague  shivers  of  death  it  forbodes ; 

While  an  odour  of  graves  through  the  darkness  spreads, 
And  on  the  swamp's  margin,  my  timid  foot  treads 
Upon  slimy  snails,  and  on  unseen  toads. 


Be  wise,  O  my  Woe,  seek  thy  grievance  to  drown, 
Thou  didst  call  for  the  night,  and  behold  it  is  here, 
An  atmosphere  sombre,  envelopes  the  town, 
To  some  bringing  peace  and  to  others  a  care. 

Whilst  the  manifold  souls  of  the  vile  multitude, 

'Neath  the  lash  of  enjoyment,  that  merciless  sway, 

Go  plucking  remorse  from  the  menial  brood, 

From  them  far,  O  my  grief,  hold  my  hand,  come  this  way. 

Behold  how  they  beckon,  those  years,  long  expired, 

From  Heaven,  in  faded  apparel  attired, 

How  Regret,  smiling,  foams  on  the  waters  like  yeast ; 

Its  arches  of  slumber  the  dying  sun  spreads, 
And  like  a  long  winding-sheet  dragged  to  the  East, 
Oh,  hearken  Beloved,  how  the  Night  softly  treads  ! 


To  a  Passer-by 

Around  me  thundered  the  deafening  noise  of  the  street, 
In  mourning  apparel,  portraying  majestic  distress, 
With  queenly  ringers,  just  lifting  the  hem  of  her  dress, 
A  stately  woman  passed  by  with  hurrying  feet. 

Agile  and  noble,  with  limbs  of  perfect  poise. 

Ah,  how  I  drank,  thrilled  through  like  a  Being  insane, 

In  her  look,  a  dark  sky,  from  whence  springs  forth  the 

There  lay  but  the  sweetness  that  charms,  and  the  joy  that 


A  flash — then  the  night.     .     .     .     O  loveliness  fugitive  ! 
Whose  glance  has  so  suddenly  caused  me  again  to  live, 
Shall  I  not  see  you  again  till  this  life  is  o'er  ! 

Elsewhere,  far  away     ...     too  late,  perhaps  never  more, 
For  I  know  not  whither  you  fly,  nor  you,  where  I  go, 
O  soul  that  I  would  have  loved,  and  that  you  know  ! 

Illusionary  Love 

When  I  behold  thee  wander  by,  my  languorous  love, 
To  songs  of  viols  which  throughout  the  dome  resound, 
Harmonious  and  stately  as  thy  footsteps  move, 
Bestowing  forth  the  languor  of  thy  glance  profound. 

When  I  regard  thee,  glowing  in  the  gaslight  rays, 
Thy  pallid  brow  embellished  by  a  charm  obscure, 
Here  where  the  evening  torches  light  the  twilight  haze, 
Thine  eyes  attracting  me  like  those  of  a  portraiture, 

I  say — How  beautiful  she  is  !  how  strangely  rich  ! 
A  mighty  memory,  royal  and  commanding  tower, 
A  garland  :  and  her  heart,  bruised  like  a  ruddy  peach, 
Is  ripe — like  her  body  for  Love's  sapient  power. 

Art  thou,  that  spicy  Autumn-fruit  with  taste  supreme  ? 
Art  thou  a  funeral  vase  inviting  tears  of  grief  ? 
Aroma — causing  one  of  Eastern  wastes  to  dream  ; 
A  downy  cushion,  bunch  of  flowers  or  golden  sheaf  ? 

I  know  that  there  are  eyes,  most  melancholy  ones, 
Wherein  no  precious  secret  deeply  hidden  lies, 
Resplendent  shrines,  devoid  of  relics,  sacred  stones, 
More  empty,  more  profound  than  ye  yourselves,  O  skies  ? 

Yea,  does  thy  semblance,  not  alone  for  me  suffice, 
To  kindle  senses  which  the  cruel  truth  abhor  ? 
All  one  to  me  !  thy  folly  or  thy  heart  of  ice, 
Decoy  or  mask,  all  hail !  thy  beauty  I  adore ! 


Mists  and  Rains 

O  last  of  Autumn  and  Winter — steeped  in  haze, 
O  sleepy  seasons  !  you  I  love  and  praise, 
Because  around  my  heart  and  brain  you  twine 
A  misty  winding-sheet  and  a  nebulous  shrine. 

On  that  great  plain,  where  frigid  blasts  abound, 
Where  through  the  nights,  so  long,  the  vane  whirls  round, 
My  soul,  more  free  than  in  the  springtime  soft, 
Will  stretch  her  raven  wings  and  soar  aloft, 

Unto  an  heart  with  gloomy  things  replete, 
On  which  remain  the  frosts  of  former  Times, 
O  pallid  seasons,  mistress  of  our  climes 

As  your  pale  shadows — nothing  is  so  sweet, 

Unless  it  be,  on  a  moonless  night  a-twain, 

On  some  chance  couch  to  soothe  to  sleep  our  Pain. 


The  Wine  of  Lovers 

To-day  the  Distance  is  superb, 
Without  bridle,  spur  or  curb, 
Let  us  mount  on  the  back  of  wine 
For  Regions  fairy  and  divine  ! 

Let's,  like  two  angels  tortured  by 
Some  dark,  delirious  phantasy, 
Pursue  the  distant  mirage  drawn 
O'er  the  blue  crystal  of  the  dawn  ! 

And  gently  balanced  on  the  wing 
Of  some  obliging  whirlwind,  we 
— In  equal  rapture  revelling — 

My  sister,  side  by  side  will  flee, 
Without  repose,  nor  truce,  where  gleams 
The  golden  Paradise  of  my  dreams  ! 


Condemned   Women 

Like  thoughtful  cattle  on  the  yellow  sands  reclined, 
They  turn  their  eyes  towards  the  horizon  of  the  sea, 
Their  feet  towards  each  other  stretched,  their  hands 

They  tell  of  gentle  yearning,  frigid  misery. 

A  few,  with  heart-confiding  faith  of  old,  imbued 
Amid  the  darkling  grove,  where  silver  streamlets  flow, 
Unfold  to  each  their  loves  of  tender  infanthood, 
And  carve  the  verdant  stems  of  the  vine-kissed  portico. 

And  others  like  unto  nuns  with  footsteps  slow  and  grave, 
Ascend  the  hallowed  rocks  of  ancient  mystic  lore, 
Where  long  ago — St.  Anthony,  like  a  surging  wave, 
The  naked  purpled  breasts  of  his  temptation  saw. 

And  still  some  more,  that  'neath  the  shimmering  masses 


Among  the  silent  chasm  of  some  pagan  caves, 
To  soothe  their  burning  fevers  unto  thee  they  call 
O  Bacchus  !  who  all  ancient  wounds  and  sorrow  laves. 

And  others  again,  whose  necks  in  scapulars  delight, 
Who  hide  a  whip  beneath  their  garments  secretly, 
Commingling,  in  the  sombre  wood  and  lonesome  night, 
The  foam  of  torments  and  of  tears  with  ecstasy. 


O  virgins,  demons,  monsters,  and  O  martyred  brood  ! 
Great  souls  that  mock  Reality  with  remorseless  sneers, 
O  saints  and  satyrs,  searchers  for  infinitude  ! 
At  times  so  full  of  shouts,  at  times  so  full  of  tears  ! 

You,  to  whom  within  your  hell  my  spirit  flies, 
Poor  sisters — yea,  I  love  you  as  I  pity  you, 
For  your  unsatiated  thirsts  and  anguished  sighs, 
And  for  the  vials  of  love  within  your  hearts  so  true. 

The  Death  of  the  Lovers 

We  will  have  beds  which  exhale  odours  soft, 
AVe  will  have  divans  profound  as  the  tomb, 
And  delicate  plants  on  the  ledges  aloft, 
Which  under  the  bluest  of  skies  for  us  bloom. 

Exhausting  our  hearts  to  their  last  desires, 
They  both  shall  be  like  unto  two  glowing  coals, 
Reflecting  the  twofold  light  of  their  fires 
Across  the  twin  mirrors  of  our  two  souls. 

One  evening  of  mystical  azure  skies, 

We'll  exchange  but  one  single  lightning  flash, 

Just  like  a  long  sob — replete  with  good  byes. 

And  later  an  angel  shall  joyously  pass 

Through  the  half-open  doors,  to  replenish  and  wash 

The  torches  expired,  and  the  tarnished  glass. 


The   Death  of  the   Poor 

It  is  Death  that  consoles — yea,  and  causes  our  lives  • 
'Tis  the  goal  of  this  Life — and  of  Hope  the  sole  ray, 
Which  like  a  strong  potion  enlivens  and  gives 
Us  the  strength  to  plod  on  to  the  end  of  the  day. 

And  all  through  the  tempest,  the  frost  and  the  snows, 
'Tis  the  shimmering  light  on  our  black  sky-line  ; 
'Tis  the  famous  inn  which  the  guide-book  shows, 
Whereat  one  can  eat,  and  sleep,  and  recline ; 

'Tis  an  angel  that  holds  in  his  magic  hands 
The  sleep,  which  ecstatic  dream  commands, 
Who  remakes  up  the  beds  of  the  naked  and  poor ; 

'Tis  the  fame  of  the  gods,  'tis  the  granary  blest, 

'Tis  the  purse  of  the  poor,  and  his  birth-place  of  rest, 

To  the  unknown  Heavens,  'tis  the  wide-open  door. 

W.    H.    DARGAN,    LTD.,    SMITHFIELD,    E.C.